“I see the dawn of life upon the Earth. I see the gradual change from one form of life to another—and see the rise of Man to supremacy.
“The past history of Man, from the morning of time to what you call the present, and the future of Man, the Earth, the Sun—all these I see—and they are occurring simultaneously, are taking place in the endless, eternal now!
“I see you operating on the head of John Ovington—and see your end! There’s nothing, nothing, Koszarek, in this sphere of the fourth dimension, in time, that I cannot see—or, more accurately, sense.
“Beyond the fourth there is a fifth dimension; and I sense it but dimly. Eternity, I think you would call it. It is the line, the direction perpendicular to time—but it eludes me; I cannot grasp it.” The thought of the Brain ceased.
Leo Koszarek was almost speechless with excitement. His ugly face was agleam. For a moment his repulsive features looked almost attractive. But after that instant his unlovely nature asserted itself in a flash of jealousy that made itself evident in his voice.
“In every way—in every way I was right! But why can’t I sense it—why can’t I see it all? Mine the honor; but my senses blind me!”
Suddenly he appealed to the Brain. “Isn’t there some way you can show me what you see—some means by which I can see the future—or even the past? Before you had gained the power to transmit your thoughts, I got a glimpse of it all—but it was so little—and seeing it as you see it, from the four-dimensional viewpoint, would be too much for me. But isn’t there some other way?” His voice had taken on a note of pleading that was entirely out of harmony with his character.
FOR long moments the Brain made no reply. Then abruptly, as though coming to a sudden decision, the answer came; and there was a curiously exultant quality in it.
“Yes, there is one way; and by means of it I can show you either past or future events. But it necessitates your placing your will completely under the control of mine, as you would in hypnosis.
“I’ve found since gaining this sublimated state, that men follow a plan of existence somewhat akin to that brought forth in the theory of reincarnation. Thus, you, or a counterpart of you, exist numberless times in both past and future, each existence, of course, separated by a varying number of generations. Whether or not this is due to what some call the soul, others the ego, which is born in a future body—or whether it is due, perhaps, to some microscopic part of the dead mind, finding its way into the life cells of an unborn future generation, I cannot say. Nor does it matter. But the fact remains that it is so; and because of it, I am able to show you either past or future, as it has been seen, or will be seen by your past or future counterpart.
“You may think that this thought involves a paradox, that you could not exist simultaneously in different ages—but you should bear in mind that those different existences are separated by the fourth dimension—time . . . But, of course, with your knowledge of hyper-space, you understand that without my explaining!”
Koszarek failed to detect the mockery in the silent voice of the Brain.
Anything—anything within reason to see the future!” he exclaimed. “The past would be interesting, but it is known. But the knowledge of the future—that will be of tremendous value from a scientific and a commercial standpoint! What must I do to see it?”
The reply came quickly. “First see that the machinery that keeps me alive is in perfect order; then center your mind on me to the exclusion of all else, as you did when you caught a glimpse of the hyper-world. I shall do the rest.”
Koszarek carefully examined every minute part of the device that sent the artificial blood through the Brain; saw that the motor and pumps were in perfect working order and well-oiled; and tested the liquid in the tank to be certain that the Brain was receiving only the elements that it should.
Finally, all in readiness, he seized a chair, placed it directly opposite the crystal sphere, and seating himself, he fixed his eyes on the Brain, shutting everything else from his mind.
A second time he seemed to be leaving his body. Like a magnet of the intellect, the Brain seemed to be drawing his mind from his physical being—and taking the former into itself!
And slowly, with a transition, a transmutation, that he could not detect, the mind that was Koszarek’s merged with the mind of his counterpart long centuries in the future.
And before him unrolled the picture of a world of inconceivable complexity, a world of super-men, and a super-civilization; and before him—rather, within him—was enacted the tale of a life, his life in that future world.
CHAPTER IV
The Super-Race
THERE was a black, angry frown on the face of the man who gazed out through the tower window into the night at the giant, human beehive, Cosmopolis, the world’s largest city, in the year of 2944. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were drawn into a thin, straight line that drooped at the corners.
A deep roar of sound, a ceaseless medley of voices, electrical, mechanical, human, poured up to him in a veritable torrent—the city made articulate. One above another in a series of tiers, the traffic levels rose, each contributing its individual sound to the bedlam. The dull rumble of the heavy freight vehicles on the lowest levels, the high-pitched roar of the passenger cars on the levels above that; the voices of the pedestrians still higher; and on the highest level, the ceaseless hum of the dangling monorail cars, flashing endlessly over the network of shining steel that covered the city. And above all these, droning like so many angry hornets, the myriad aircraft of the period darted, crossing and re-crossing in a nocturnal sky that was aglow with countless vari-colored beacon lights.
The frown on the face of the man at the window deepened; a wave of red crept up the knotted cords of his neck, suffused the set jaws, then suddenly swept in a tide over cheeks and temples. A low laugh, cold, unpleasant, mirthless, fell from his lips. It ended in an almost inaudible snarl. Then the man was silent, and motionless, and only his eyes were active, glaring out of deep sockets like points of black light; only his eyes—and his mind.
How he hated it—the glare of lights, the towering buildings, the madly speeding vehicles, the vast milling throngs! He hated, loathed them all—all—for they were the instruments, the subjects, aye, the creations of—the Brain!
The people—he hated them particularly! This self-styled super-race, this race of physically perfect beings, every member of which had even, regular, harmonizing features, without spot or blemish, whose bodies were matchless physical machines—God! How he hated them! For of all Earth’s billions, he alone was ugly, he alone, deformed! They were perfect—and he was not—and because of his deformity he was a creature set apart from them, tolerated, but secretly despised.
He hated the people; yes—but far, far beyond that feeling was his hatred for the Brain, the power behind the super-race, the cause of it all. For the Brain had conceived the present complex world, had brought about the present perfection of the race; and likewise, it had been responsible for his having to remain the one anomaly, the one physical monstrosity in the civilized world!
More than a thousand years before, so history said, the Brain had come into existence. A scientist of that day—his name had been lost during the centuries—had removed the brain of a man and had kept it alive by artificial means. For some strange reason that brain had developed incredible mental powers, powers that it had exerted through the scientists that attended it, until it had become the recognized scientific authority of the world. And gradually as the years of the Brain’s life dragged into centuries, and after countless changes had been made, countless inventions introduced by the Brain, all mankind had accepted the bodiless thing as their ruler.
Four centuries in the past, the Brain had established its most revolutionary change—the change that most particularly affected the man at the window. At that time the world had been faced by a seemingly insoluble problem. The steadily increasing fertility of the less desirable members of the world’s popu
lation was gradually, though none-the-less certainly, lowering the mental level of humanity. The Brain, to correct this, working through the scientists, created the first ectogenetic child. An ovary was removed from a woman who had been killed in an accident, and was kept alive in a liquid similar to that which held the Brain. Several eggs were obtained from it, fertilized successfully, and the embryos grown for nine months, then brought out into the air—living, normal children.
In spite of strong opposition, the Brain gradually established ectogenesis throughout the world, until two generations back, it had been declared a criminal offense, punishable by death, for children to be born of women. There were few offenders, however, for the women of the world were glad to escape the pain and travail of childbirth. And the comparatively small number of men and women who were selected as progenitors for each succeeding generation, were so unquestionably superior to the majority, that a marked mental and physical advance in the race became evident almost immediately. Gradually the present super-race had been created.
The man at the window laughed shortly, bitterly. He was the result of disobedience of that law, the ectogenetic law, as it was called. He had been born of a woman, a woman whom he had never seen; and the Brain had permitted him to live as an example of what disobedience to the law would result. And because no individual in this age could lead a useless life, he had been trained to become a scientist, a student of chemistry.
HE turned and surveyed the room—his laboratory. A laboratory that contained everything that a chemist could desire—but he loathed it—for behind it was the Brain! Everywhere—everywhere—the Brain! The thought was maddening.
Hatred for the Brain—his mind seemed able to grasp only that. His thoughts moved in a cycle that began and ended with the disembodied thing. Day and night his own brain would not stop mangling and tearing itself to pieces—and would not let him rest—and there was no peace—none! His lips drew back in an angry snarl, and a low, bestial growl welled up in his throat. Then he began to curse violently, giving vent to his hatred for the Brain.
After a time the paroxysm passed; the demoniacal hate on his face faded. Through utter exhaustion the voice of hatred in his mind had ceased its plagueing.
He moved slowly toward a doorway in a far corner, a doorway that led to his bedroom. He’d try to get some much-needed sleep. He paused before a small, concave mirror in the wall beside his bed—a mirror that strangely reflected his. entire figure in miniature, yet without distortion—and gazed at his features. He was ugly, there was no question about that. Those bony protuberances above his eyes; his prominent nose with its cruelly depressed tip; his high, square-cut cheek bones, and hollow cheeks—and above all, his deep-sunken eyes—they constituted a picture of grim ugliness. He made no attempt to deny it.
His body too, with its twisted spine and crooked legs, one shorter than the other—it was a repulsive thing! And the costume of the day, the garb of the scientists, sleeveless, loose-fitting garments of white cloth that reached to the waist, dark blue trunks terminating midway between waist and thigh, and insignificent sandals—they but served to make his ugliness more evident.
He ground his teeth as he gazed at his image, for he knew that, had the Brain so willed, his deformity could have been corrected. But that had been denied him—the ever-recurring thought returned again—by the hateful, the accursed Brain!
Suddenly breaking in upon his thoughts, he heard a sharp buzzing in the laboratory. With a muttered imprecation he left the bedroom, and approached the small duo-televisor screen that stood close to the door. With an effort he drew his face into an expressionless mask; then deftly made the necessary contacts.
The interior of a great, dome-ceilinged room of palest lavender appeared on the screen. Walls and ceilings were of glass, cast in great, translucent slabs; the floor was a sheet of highly polished metal. In the center of the chamber was the hollow crystal globe that contained the Brain. And beneath the globe was the apparatus that kept the Brain alive, a series of tanks, pumps and atomic energy motors that were as perfect as machinery could be made. Centuries before, at the direction of the Brain, they had replaced the original antiquated devices that the Brain’s creator had used.
“Clavering,” the thought came to the man in the laboratory. “I need the liquid upon which you have been laboring for the past two months—and I must have it tonight! You have your directions; you will complete the process within the next hour. Bring the liquid to me when you have concluded your task!”
The screen flashed white; the thought of the Brain had gone from Clavering’s mind. The latter broke the contact.
For long moments he stared at the duo-televisor screen, an angry flush creeping over his face; then abruptly he shrugged his shoulders. It was the way of the Brain; he had to obey.
For two months he had been conducting countless experiments under the guidance of the Brain, slowly, very slowly, forming a liquid that he believed was the long sought-for elixir of life. And now the end was in sight.
He limped across the laboratory to a long table on which a deep blue flame burned under a device somewhat resembling an alembic. Swift, little phosphorescences played over the surface of the crimson liquid within. Strange fumes arose. Beside it in an apparatus of twisted quartz, a clear blue solution sparkled. Other activities were going forward. Donning a long white robe, Clavering resumed his labors.
Gradually for him the room seemed to vanish; only his work existed. With complete concentration he bent his mind upon the task before him.
After a time he relaxed to some extent and his thoughts turned to the purpose of the liquid that the Brain desired. Little more remained to be done; his work no longer required his complete attention. That this was the elixir of life, he felt sure—though why he had come to that conclusion, he did not know. True, he had repeated in part the experiments of the ancient alchemists of former ages, alchemists and philosophers whose lives were now only legends—Aristotle, Albertus Magnus, Roger Bacon, Aquinas, Paracelsus—and they had been seeking the Alkahest, the universal solvent; but their’s were selfish ideas! He had followed the directions of the Brain—that was all; but all during his labors the thought had beat incessantly upon his mind that this was the elixir of life, the solvent of death!
HE raised a test tube to the light, stared for an instant through the liquid it contained, then replaced it in the clamp above the flame. He waited patiently until the furiously boiling fluid had varied from a dull brown to a deep emerald, then dropped a minute portion of the fluid from a little bottle into the tube. In an instant the substance changed to a brilliant yellow that glowed with a living light. Clavering removed the test tube, turned down the flame, and cooled the liquid in running water and the thing was done! Whatever it was that he had made, it was complete.
He transferred the sparkling fluid to a platinum flask that contained more of the substance; and he was ready to deliver it to the Brain.
Hastily he started toward the door, as though he feared the substance he bore. His mind seemed not his own.
“The Brain! The Brain! It must go to the Brain!” he muttered—then abruptly he stopped short, his eyes wide in wonder at the thought that had come to him.
For long he had sought to enter the Chamber of the Brain to destroy the object of his hate, but his efforts had always failed. None were permitted there unless they were summoned by the Brain. And now the opportunity was at hand! At last he might be able to blot out the monstrous thing that had been responsible for his remaining the object of scorn that he was!
He had a weapon—oh, yes, he had a weapon! Scientists were not supposed to have weapons of any sort while in the Science Tower—they were forbidden by the Brain—but he had constructed one, a diminutive thing that he could well conceal beneath his garments, but that was powerful enough to shatter the crystal ball with the metal pellet that it cast from itself. And he knew how to use it; he had practiced for long hours. He had made it to destroy the Brain; and now he might be able
to use it!
Clavering was beside himself with excitement. “The Brain! The Brain! Death to the Brain!” Wildly the thought throbbed through his mind. Trembling with eagerness, he secured his little weapon, concealed it beneath his white jacket, then left the laboratory.
Quickly he stepped upon the moving half-section of the floor that sped toward the center of the building, and was swept toward the great elevators in the heart of the gigantic tower. Upon reaching them, he was accosted by a tall, handsome, powerfully-muscled guard—one of the hated “super-race.”
“Well, what do you want, Clavering?” the latter asked gruffly.
“Audience with the Brain!” Clavering drew himself up as straight as his twisted form permitted.
The guard adjusted his portable duo-televisor, and spoke to the entity in the crystal sphere.
“He may come; I called him,” the thought came to them. And Clavering entered an elevator that bore him upward with incredible speed.
Up—up to the very top of the mile-high Tower of Science, where, in the gigantic dome that crowned the tremendous structure, was the Brain!
Clavering was strangely cool now; his nerves were steady; to all outward appearances his mind was not particularly concerned about anything. One hand carried the flask of yellow fluid, and the other hung free; but under the arm that held the flask was pressed his weapon.
At length the speeding elevator came to rest and Clavering alighted. He was in a vast, circular hallway that completely surrounded the domed Chamber of the Brain. Only one doorway led into the room; Clavering saw it a hundred feet away. But he made no attempt to approach it; a telepathic message had commanded that he wait.
Coolly he moved toward one of the many windows that alternated with the elevator doors in the thick walls of the circular hallway, and gazed out over the city. From his vantage point in the tallest of the towers of Cosmopolis he could see to the farthest corner of the city he hated—though the maze of beacon lights and darting planes far below him distorted his vision to some extent.
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